Canary (21 page)

Clarisse proceeded Valentine and Niobe up the steps to the veranda and stopped to look down toward the sun-sparked surface of the river. She lifted her sunglasses to look about and see if she recognized any of the dozen or so men sitting in the chairs facing the small lawn. Several men were already setting up picnic tables for lunch. More cars and VW vans were pulling up. License plates read Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont, and New York.

Niobe came up onto the top step and shaded her eyes as she looked at the new arrivals. “It's the Roadies,” she announced.

“Who?” Valentine asked.

“Bartenders from Rhode Island. I worked at a bar in Rhode Island once, did you know that?”

“No,” Clarisse said as she looked past Niobe and waved to several men emerging from inside the Lodge. They were bartenders from the Boston Ramrod.

“Rhode Island is the next closest thing to hell on earth,” Niobe announced loudly—within hearing of the arrivals from that state.

“Oh?” Valentine asked, “What's the
closest
thing to hell on earth?”

“Waking up in a forest stone sober.”

Valentine pulled open the screen door. “The bar's across the room.” He nodded toward the cool interior of the massive lodge living room—one long undivided space filled with comfortable couches, rag rugs, and a ratty moosehead over the fireplace.

Niobe fled inside. Valentine and Clarisse followed her just over the threshold of the lodge but Clarisse caught Valentine's wrist. “Val, that woman down at the other end of the room—does she seem familiar to you?”

“Yes. She looks very much like Elvis Presley after he got on drugs.”

“Not her. The woman with curly blonde hair and sunglasses in the jeans and cowboy shirt, talking with the two men in the green T-shirts.”

“No, don't recognize her. I do know the two numbers she's talking to, though. The muscular ones with the mustaches are Fred and Mike. Fred's the one with wavy hair and Mike's the short hair. They own River Pines.”

“They don't have nicknames, I hope—like Frick and Frack or something, do they?”

“Nope. Why?”

“After Ruder and Cruder, and The Ice Maiden, I never know what to expec—wait!
That's
who the woman is! It's B.J.!”

Valentine peered at the blonde woman. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Clarisse definitely. “Take a good look. She's cut her hair, and she's not wearing her black leather.”

“So it is B.J.,” Valentine said. “I wonder why she isn't in her leather?”

“Maybe she's going tubing later. It would be difficult floating downriver in a tire if you're weighted down with whips and chains. I wonder who she came with? Anyway, I'm glad she's here. One of us can talk with her, and then we'll see how right or wrong our suspicions are.”

“I was sort of hoping in all this back-to-nature business you'd forgotten about snooping for a little while.”

Clarisse fussed with the ribbon of her large hat. “Val, I am perfectly capable of sniffing flowers while looking for a snake in the underbrush.”

Valentine rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother.”

“Well, well, the gang's all here.”

Clarisse and Valentine were both startled by the deep voice and turned quickly. Press was coming down the staircase that led to the guest rooms on the second and third floors. Charcoal sketching pencils rested behind each of his ears, and he had a medium-sized sketchpad tucked under his arm.

“And Niobe, too?” Press asked, glancing into the bar. “Who's minding the store?”

“I decided to adhere to the true spirit of this holiday,” Valentine said, “and close Slate for the day. A mini-holiday for manager and staff.”

Press raked platinum hair off his forehead with one hand and barely suppressed a smirk. “Rumor speaketh otherwise…”

“Rumor usually speaketh with a forked tongue,” Clarisse said darkly. “What's it saying this time?”

“Not much, really,” Press admitted.

A group of men came through the front door and, as Valentine knew them from past Bartenders' Weekends, there were brief greetings.

“Just what is ‘not much'?” Clarisse persisted.
“Really?”

Press pulled one of his charcoal pencils from behind an ear and flitted it through his fingers as he talked. “I just heard that Slate has closed its doors for the last time. That it's going to reopen as a straight bar called ‘South Endie Trendies.' That the two of you have lost your financial shirts but that you didn't care because the whole thing was a tax write-off anyway.”

“When did you first hear this rumor?” Valentine demanded.

“Oh, about two and a half seconds after you pulled in the parking lot,” Press replied, smirking again.

“It's not true,” Clarisse snapped.

“Rumors fly when you're having a good time.” Press shrugged. He pushed his hair back again, nodded curtly to Valentine and Clarisse, and then walked outside to the veranda.

“I don't think there's a rumor at all,” Clarisse said. “I think he just made that up.”

“So do I,” Valentine agreed. “But it doesn't matter if he made it up or not, because he'll spread it. That's one of the wonderful things about operating a gay business—the moral support you get from the community. Let's find Niobe and help her make a dent in Fred and Mike's liquor supply.”

“Get me something,” said Clarisse. “I don't want to fight that crowd.”

Valentine returned a few moments later with a scotch and water for Clarisse. She was standing at one of the large low windows that opened on to the veranda. “I just saw something interesting,” she said.

“What?”

“As soon as Press left, B.J. went outside, too, and caught up with him. The two of them walked down to the river together. I didn't know they knew each other. What if B.J. was at Press's place the night Jed was killed?”

“I knew that was what you were going to say. What are you suggesting—that Press and B.J. are sleeping together? I can understand Newt carrying on with her, but let's face it. Press is a card-carrying homo and wouldn't change for anything.”

“No,” said Clarisse. “No sex. But remember, Press is an artist, and B.J. is an archaeologist. She has to have a strong background in art, so that would provide them with some common ground.”

“Jed never mentioned B.J. being at their apartment.”

“Maybe Jed didn't know,” Clarisse argued. “Jed and Press were on the outs before Jed was killed. Press told us he and Jed left notes instead of facing each other.”

“Go on,” Valentine conceded.

Clarisse turned away from the windows and leaned against the sill. She removed her dark glasses and said, “Press and Jed both were out at bars the night Jed was killed. Press went to the Loft and didn't leave there until six in the morning, when the place closes. Maybe B.J. was also at the Loft that night. Press could have invited her back to his apartment. Once they got there, they got more stoned than they already were, and Press passed out. Jed, who was already home, got up later and found B.J. still there. They had words; she overpowered him, strangled him, and then left. Press slept through it all.”

“There were no signs of a fight in that apartment.”

“Aha,” Clarisse said, waving an index finger, “I've thought of that. She could have crept into Jed's room and killed him while he slept.”

“Jed would have put up a struggle,” Valentine insisted, “and there was no sign of one.”

Clarisse bit her lower lip. “Then she used something to overpower him—something that doesn't leave marks.”

“Clarisse,” Valentine said patiently, “think about this: why would B.J. kill Jed when, if your theory's right, Press was right there? He wouldn't have put up a struggle if he'd passed out.”

Clarisse made a pouting frown. She put her glasses back on. “I'll think about it while I go get another drink.”

“While you're gone,” Valentine suggested, “come up with a reason for B.J. to murder a perfect stranger.”

A
FTER THEY HAD DRINKS,
Valentine and Clarisse went off separately. Valentine fell into conversation with old friends from New Haven, and Clarisse decided to explore the lodge itself. With her scotch and water she wandered into the poolroom, the small back bar, and then doubled back through the dining room into the lounging area. She selected a large overstuffed chair facing the hearth and settled well down into it. She propped her feet up on an ottoman. Clarisse stared into the cold fireplace and thoughtfully sipped her drink. Music and snatches of conversation filtered into the room from the bar and through the open windows. She felt pleasantly weary and closed her eyes.

They flew open again when rapid footfalls crossed the carpet behind her chair. Chair cushions sighed as someone sat down. This was immediately followed by a steady dull tapping of shoe against carpet. The pillows sighed again. Clarisse shifted her eyes to her left as the footfalls rushed across the carpet and there was another groan of upholstery as this restless person resumed nervous foot tapping.

“If you don't stop that,” Clarisse said through clenched teeth, “I'm going to epoxy your feet to the floor.”

“Who's that?” a male voice exclaimed in surprise.

Clarisse dragged her feet off the ottoman and turned. Her eyes widened as she looked over the rim of her glasses. “Well, it must be old home week.”

“What are
you
doing here?” Father McKimmon asked with apparent shock. He was not wearing his priest garb, but a flowered sport shirt and tan slacks with a pair of brown deck shoes.

“Good question,” Clarisse replied. “I was just about to ask it.”

Father McKimmon released a deep breath. He leaned far back, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He appeared to be forcing himself to relax. The fingers of his right hand tapped out a nervous staccato against the upholstery. “I wasn't expecting to run into a crowd here today.”

“What were you expecting to run into?” Clarisse asked the priest.

Raucous laughter erupted outside the open window at Father McKimmon's back. He flinched at the sound, then took another deep, steadying breath and addressed Clarisse again. “I was told people came here to relax and not carry on. I heard the place was…” He frowned for want of the right word.

“Discreet?” Clarisse put in. “Most of the time it probably is, but this is a holiday weekend, you know.”

Father McKimmon creased his brows. “Holi—? Oh, yes, that's right, Labor Day. Well, I don't pay attention to
those
holidays. If I had known that all these people were going to be here… A friend dropped me off, so I guess I'm stuck here… I…”

Clarisse wondered why the priest was so distracted. Upset at being seen at a gay resort? That didn't make sense, because he'd seen Clarisse often enough at Slate. If he'd never admitted that he was gay, he'd at least never denied that he enjoyed the company of gay men.

Clarisse removed her dark glasses. “Your retreat is somewhere in this area, didn't you tell me?”

“Yes,” said McKimmon eagerly. “Yes, it's about ten miles from here. Very close, in fact. And quite frequently this summer I came over here…” He faded out again.

“To get away from things,” Clarisse suggested, but she knew that
to get sloshed
was probably much nearer the mark.

“Yes,” McKimmon said, “to get away from things.”

“It was terrible about Newt, wasn't it?” Clarisse said suddenly.

“Newt?”

“Ricky Newton.”

“Oh, yes, Niobe's husband. Terrible.”

Clarisse looked surprised. “I was told he used to be a student of yours.”

McKimmon pulled up short. “I've had so many over the years. But of course I remember him from the bar. Yes, it was dreadful how he ended up.”

“Were you in town when it happened?” Clarisse asked innocently.

“I don't know.”

Clarisse raised an eyebrow. “It was July fifth.”

McKimmon bit at his lower lip. “The middle of the summer was a rough time for me, I'm afraid. I don't actually have much memory of
what
was going on at that time.”

“You must remember what you did on July Fourth. That wasn't even six weeks ago.”

“I celebrated,” said McKimmon curtly, and got up out of the chair. “Is Niobe here?”

“She's at the bar, I think,” Clarisse said.

“I have to give her my condolences,” said the priest, and walked out of the room before Clarisse had the opportunity to ask him anything else.